


A Newsnight Special

by 100dabbo



Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Dinner, Dom/sub, Domestic Fluff, Hand Jobs, M/M, Workplace Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:35:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28295406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/100dabbo/pseuds/100dabbo
Summary: Malcolm invites Ollie over for some dinner, and they turn on Newsnight at half past ten.
Relationships: Ollie Reeder/Malcolm Tucker
Comments: 7
Kudos: 14





	A Newsnight Special

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cattycat1310](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cattycat1310/gifts).



> Merry Christmas Cat, I love you ♥

“ _Ollie!_ ”

The volume, authority and implication of the address made him lift his head from his computer immediately. He recognised the voice, knew it was Malcolm, and peered over the monitor to confirm who it was the voice belonged to. In seeing that it was indeed him, the Director of Communications himself, Ollie pushed his glasses up as if on instinct, and straightened that skinny tie around his neck.

He watched him in stride, making his way over from the lifts towards his desk, presumably just for a detour before the inevitable and obligatory daily bollocking of Nicola for some cock-up Ollie hadn’t yet been informed of, but when he got there, he stopped properly.

Still not staying a word, his eyes scanned for a place to sit, and when an immediate option failed to show itself, stole a chair from behind someone’s desk, dragging it up beside Ollie to sit down. Despite the tone he had begun with, his expression was calm, and he set down the files he’d brought on the desk. Whether Ollie was in for a lecture, an equally severe bollocking, or worse, he couldn’t tell. Silence wasn’t particularly better than Malcolm’s habitual and loud expletive rants, even if it did save him from embarrassment, but the tension was something he equally couldn’t take. He swallowed, watching Malcom take his seat without a word, and asked,

“You alright, Malcolm? Do you need something?” He leant back in his chair along with the words, along with the other man’s approach, his hands clutching to the arms almost tensely. Malcolm’s eyes only flicked down to them, narrowed subtly, and came back up to Ollie’s.

“Dinner at mine tonight.” He said, receiving the immediate shock of Ollie’s expression, frantically, silently, telling him to lower his voice just a little to save them from the potential eavesdroppers and observers DoSAC always seemed keen to employ. He didn’t. “Come by Number 10 before, alright? Don’t want to be waiting out here with the saddos in faux Savile Row while you’re still busy mopping up whatever pathetic little mess you’ve made, yeah?” 

Ollie’s face ceased to calm, ditto for his body language, making Malcolm roll his eyes, “What, you think Glenn’s gonna hear you? That fucker’s ‘bout as deaf as Helen Keller and oblivious as a kid lost in a Waitrose, you’re fine.”

“Helen Keller was blind though, wasn’t she? Or was she both?”

“Fuck knows, that’s not the point, but Glenn’ll probably be both by the time he’s sixty.”

The light chuckle that he received in response was what Malcolm took as the yes, to which he stood up and took his files, “Come over as soon as you’re done in this cesspit and we’ll get a taxi.”

“Malcolm—”

“ _Nicola!_ ”

The man promptly walked away from Ollie’s desk and into her office, leaving the door open, allowing Ollie to be his auxiliary audience.

He was packing up his things at half five, thirty minutes later than he ought to have done due to Malcolm’s very correct presumption that he was clearing up some sort of mess, and he got himself over to Number 10 as fast as he could, hyping himself up to knock on Malcolm’s office door before it was opened for him. 

His fist was still raised in the air, bringing it down the second he saw Malcolm’s face, though it was noticed.

“Squaring up, eh?” Malcolm said, closing the door behind him before leading the two down the corridor, “Sam told me you arrived five minutes ago and you’ve been sitting out here like a kid outside the headmaster’s office.”

“Yeah, I- Well, I didn’t want to interrupt if you were doing something important, Malcolm.”

Malcolm stopped and smirked genially, staring and looking across Ollie’s face, then down to his tie. He’d changed it. It was a deeper blue than before. He took it between his thumb and forefinger.

“Important doesn’t even begin to cover it, son.”

They got in the waiting taxi, shifting themselves onto the seats with briefcases and files at their feet, conversing during the journey about how their days were handled and how the next cock-up was to eventually occur by next week at the latest. When it pulled up outside Malcolm’s house, the suburban terrace with tall hedgerows and a garden path, illuminated in the orange neon of the streetlights, he tipped the driver, collected both of their cases, and led Ollie out.

He whipped out his keys, unlocking the front door with swift ease for them to step in, kick of their shoes and finally relax in the living room. It was a homely place, the antithesis of the way Malcolm’s demeanour would suggest, Ollie remembering some of off-hand comment from Terri that he probably sleeps on a bed of stone just to prime himself for an angry attitude, but it was anything but.

It wasn’t often that Ollie had the chance to stay over, and it’d probably happened fewer times than he could count on one hand, since his place was the more operative location for their relationship, so to be invited over for dinner, no matter how loudly it may have been proclaimed, was nice.

And it was good dinner too, one of the best Malcolm had ever made, though when they’d finished and Ollie expected their evening to lead elsewhere, he only found himself back on the couch, this time Malcolm at his side with his files open on his lap, flicking between pages with a highlighter in hand, back to the work he’d been at all day. He was in concentration, and as he’d said earlier, the word ‘important’ didn’t even begin to cover whatever it was. Yet, Ollie was going to complain, nonetheless.

“Why did you invite me over if you’re just gonna do work, Malcolm, I might as well go home.”

He sounded less annoyed, more deflated than anything else, and propped his feet on the coffee table, slouching on the sofa and playing with the remote, possibly even sulking if he’d dare to in Malcolm’s presence. When Malcolm laughed at the suggestion, it only egged him on to continue, “Come on!” He turned to look Malcolm in the eye, “What did you want me over for when you could have just done this on your own?”

Malcom laughed again and replaced the cap on the highlighter, resting the papers down for just a second,

“Did you not think I just wanted dinner, Ollie?” He saw Ollie blush in that moment and look back at the television, “It’s you that wants something more all the time, and I’m not your fuckin’ babysitter alright?” He shifted the papers back on his lap, gesturing at Ollie with the highlighter with his other hand, “Now turn BBC Two on, your favourite show’s about to start.”

“I’m not watching fucking Newsnight with you, Malcolm, I—”

“Listen.” Malcom interrupted; his serious tone one Ollie would obey no matter what. He was still pointing at him with the end of the highlighter, it’s fluorescent yellow tip the focus of Ollie’s eyes. He pushed up his glasses once more in the pause that Malcolm had again caused to draw out, the mysterious silence that meant he was thinking what to do. After narrowing his eyes, he spoke, “Un. Buckle. Your belt.”

“What?”

“Do it, Ollie. Don’t make me ask twice.”

“Yeah- Yeah, okay, sure.”

Ollie did it, taking the liberty to undo the fastenings and pull down his zipper too, also switching to Newsnight without another word while he was at it, just to be as obedient as possible. Malcolm’s twitch of a smirk pulled up the corner of his lip for the second that his eyes fell on the TV and quickly diminished when they returned to his papers. The tip of the highlighter made contact with the page and glided across the text smoothly, Malcolm remaining as nonchalant as he could be, as though he hadn’t just implied that he was about to do something. He only reinstated his focus on the words before him rather than on the man beside him. 

He saw Ollie shift about a little, adjusting his position in case he wanted him to be sitting in a certain way, but nothing happened. His hopes did spike for a moment when the other man’s right-hand reached over in his direction, though all he did, all he cruelly did, was turn the volume up a few notches, as if Ollie wanted to listen to Jeremy fucking Paxman even louder.

His sigh to the action was audible, and while his mind debated whether or not to just refasten his trousers and leave to save embarrassment, Malcolm was merely waiting for the right moment. He always had to have it that way, whether it was drawing something out until it was practically too late, or starting too soon just to surprise him, he would only ever do it when the time was right.

And that time happened to be once Paxman started talking.

Malcolm’s hand slipped itself into Ollie’s underwear, quickly wrapped around Ollie’s cock, and promptly began stroking in a slow enough cadence to make him moan with slight frustration.

“Ah, Malcolm!” Ollie gasped when his palm made its initial contact, leaning back into the couch, grasping to the cushions, “Fuck, you can’t- _Ah_ \- You can’t just wank me off with fucking Newsnight on!”

“Don’t pretend like you spend your Tuesday nights any different, Ollie, you—”

Malcom cut himself off when he felt him cling onto his arm, his hands encircling it to keep him going, to keep him right where he was. He looked like he was touch-starved or something, acting like that from just a dry fist with slow movements and a gritty news round-up in the background, as though he was about to bust from just 30 seconds of stroking.

“Shut up, Malcolm.” He whined, unaware that what he’d said was relatively a while ago, and they’d since been sitting with only the sounds of Ollie’s own whines, the slight ruffle of fabric, and Paxman’s droning conversation with some irrelevant guest. 

“Is this what you wanted?” Malcolm asked, tightening his fist, “When you agreed to come here, is this what you wanted to happen?”

“M- Malcolm—”

“I know my name, Ollie, I asked you a fuckin’ question.” He stopped moving his hand. “Are you gonna answer me, or do I have to edge it out of you?”

Ollie nodded, his glasses slipping down his nose, looking over their rims to make eye contact,

“I wanted- I wanted this!” His voice was a whisper when he hissed them out and Malcolm continued, his cheeks so flushed and his eyes so heavy that it shouldn’t have been the first indicator that he was close, and yet it’s what Malcolm chose to recognise as his approach to finish. His chest was rising and falling too, rapidly expanding with each deep breath, quickly dropping with his exhales.

“Ollie.” Malcolm said, not slowing down with his hand, “ _Ollie_.” Said just like earlier that morning, “Ollie, if you want it, you’ll ask.”

That finally got his attention, and as he turned his head to look at his eyes again, the words slipped from his lips without a hint of resistance,

“Please, please let me come, Malcolm, _please!_ ”

Malcolm didn’t quite say beg, but he didn’t besmirch Ollie’s efforts in the slightest. 

“Go on then.”

He saw Ollie screw his eyes shut, embed his teeth into his lip, clasp his hands even harder to his arm, and after bucking his hips up into the palm that held him, he came, breathing and moaning, twitching and throbbing, spilling onto his work shirt all of what didn’t end up in Malcolm’s hand.

The afterglow began to wash over him slowly, the gentle hum of lingering pleasure settling in his body, and his hands relaxed their grip, letting his arms fell back to his sides. His limp hand managed to push his glasses back up before resting on his chest.

“Thanks, Malcolm…” He breathed, turning his attention back to the television, the burn of his cheeks not yet abating from his face. The other man just wiped his palm on Ollie’s already spoiled shirt.

“A tight-fisted wank never disappointed anyone.” He said, picking up his highlighter again, smiling when Ollie laughed and started tucking himself away, “Lasted longer than I thought you would,” He could sense Ollie’s scowl even with his eyes being firmly fixed on the paper in front of him, “Any of your girlfriends were lucky to have you, eh?”

“Yeah, well, my girlfriends weren’t ever Malcolm Bloody Tucker.”

“That’s either a huge compliment, or an insult that you’ll regret making, son.” He retorted, not even looking up from the pages this time to threaten him with the tip of the highlighter. Ollie smiled.

“Of course.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, comments and kudos are appreciated :) Check me out on [Tumblr](https://100dabbo.tumblr.com/)!


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